


Some Conversations on the Practical Nature of Magic

by Joylee



Category: Rivers of London
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:21:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28139859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joylee/pseuds/Joylee
Summary: Some memorable conversations in the lives and magical education of Nightingale and Varvara Sidorovna Tamonina
Comments: 6
Kudos: 58
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	Some Conversations on the Practical Nature of Magic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xenocuriosa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xenocuriosa/gifts).



Casterbrook Autumn Term 1912

Metliss sat back and watched as the first years tried yet again to produce _Lux_. This was only the third week of their training and so far none of the little blighters were standing out one way or another. A couple were clearly already bored with the process. He would have to keep an eye on them. If they started disrupting the other boys’ practice a few laps around the playing field would help settle their minds. 

Then he felt it. A catch in the fabric of creation. One of them was close. Which was remarkable this soon into their training. 

He got up to stroll around the classroom. It was always good to be near a boy when he managed his first werelight. Limit the damage if he made it too hot.

Then it came. The _signare_ surprisingly precise. A tall dark haired boy in the middle row who up till now Metliss had paid little attention to, gasped in wonder as a flickering globe of light appeared in his hand.

Good color. Warm without being hot. Bit wobbly but whose first try wasn’t. This one had promise. 

“Very good…” What the devil was the boy’s name? Oh, yes. This was Stanley Nightingale’s nephew. Clearly not a plod like his uncle. “Nightingale. Try again. Reduce the heat and concentrate on the light.”

The boy did not need the encouragement. The second try was even brighter and lasted twice as long. “Not quite so bright. Practice this for an hour and then stop.” 

“Yes, Sir.” The boy breathed out. Still enraptured by his casting.

Metliss made a point of tracking the time for young Nightingale. Left to himself he would probably have kept going. “Run along and find Matron. She’ll have a sweet for you to commemorate your first forma.”

“When can I do another, Sir?”

“Tomorrow.” He shooed the boy off to his reward. 

That night in the Common Room, he inquired. “Who drew Nightingale in the pool? First werelight.”

“So soon?” The Headmaster looked up.

Old Dance cackled. “I’ve got the boy. What’s the prize this year?”

A mediocre bottle of port was presented. Metliss offered nonchalantly, “Care to trade? I have Boatright. Long family tradition of producing strong practitioners.”

But Dance was not having it. “For a boy who manages a werelight in his third week? I think not. No, I’ll keep young Nightingale. For once I’ve drawn a good ‘un.”

Casterbrook, autumn term 1918

Nightingale had been called to the Headmaster's study after he finished his daily practice session. Having a relatively clean conscience, last Friday night’s trip to the pub would hardly be cause for a meeting with the Head, he wondered why he was here.

The Head waved him to a seat before starting. “I wanted to discuss the results of your Cambridge Examination with you.”

Given that all the other fellows who sat for the exam already had their results this was probably not good news.

“I’m sorry to say your exam was rather middling, Nightingale. Not terrible, you understand. You’d no doubt be accepted at one of the newer schools, University of London or Manchester for example. But you just won’t make the cut for Cambridge. Particularly if the war ends and the soldiers start returning.” 

Strangely this was not that much of a disappointment. He had mostly sat the exam because David was determined on going to Cambridge and wanted Nightingale to come with him, His parents would be secretly thankful to be spared the expense.

Although given the houseful his parents now had there was hardly room for him to return home. In addition to his unmarried sister still living with them, his oldest sister had moved back home with her children when her husband had been killed in the war. Then his oldest surviving brother had been badly wounded and been sent home to ‘recover’. Nightingale doubted he would ever recover enough to take care of himself. His next oldest brother was returning to apprentice under Father once the war ended and would be living there as well.

No, Nightingale could not go back and burden his parents further. “What do fellows who don’t go on to Uni generally do after leaving, Sir?”

“Well some of them take teaching positions here or become researchers at the Folly.” The Headmaster said. “But Theory is not really your strongest area, Nightingale.”

“No, sir.” 

“It’s not that you lack intelligence.” The Headmaster continued, “Your grasp of Latin, Greek and Arabic are excellent. Herr Speilman says you could pass for a native in German, well he actually said you could pass for a German speaking Swiss, which amounts to the same thing. Your French is almost as good. And Mr. Metliss reports that you even picked up some Old English while accompanying him to check on Father Thames these last two years.”

Nightingale shifted uncomfortably, He had a sudden vision of being stuck in the library translating obscure ancient texts for the rest of his life. “The Thames family doesn’t really speak Old English, Sir. It’s more of a strange blend of Vulgar Latin, Celtic and Chaucer’s English. Anyone who knows a little Welsh and has a classical education could understand it.”

This was apparently not the right thing to say to derail the Headmaster. Instead he seemed pleased and nodded. “It’s less what the language is and more that you were able to pick it up and talk to the Old Man on a few hours exposure. And apparently with a fair degree of diplomacy. According to Metliss, Thames was impressed with you. That sort of… adaptability is a rare quality in Practitioners.”

All he had done was be polite to the Old Man. His mother always said a gentleman treated Duke and dustman with the same degree of civility. And by heaven her sons would be gentlemen.

That not all of his fellow students (or instructors for that matter) had the same lessons ingrained in them was no reason to think Mother wrong. And as a gentleman, he kept his opinion of those fellows’ claim to gentility to himself. 

““That adaptability coupled with your superb spell work would make it a waste to send you out to be a County Practitioner.” Picking up a sheaf of letters, the Headmaster continued. “As it happens Inspector Murville, who is the Folly’s representative within Scotland Yard, has been asking for some time now to be assigned an apprentice to assist him. He needs a bright lad of good character, capable of working with the general public, who won’t be put off by having to deal with the demi monde. I think you might be just what he’s been looking for, Nightingale.”

“A _policeman_ , Sir?” It was not a prospect that Nightingale had ever considered. But he did enjoy the detective stories he borrowed from his sisters and the adventures in Boy’s Own Paper. And London!

“A Detective and A Keeper of the King’s Peace, Nightingale.” The Headmaster clearly mistook Nightingale’s tone for reluctance. “And it would count as your Military Service requirement. Moreover, it is thought that assisting Murville will be good training for someone, once he’s reached an age of suitable discretion, who could be sent out into the Empire to assist the Foreign Service who sometimes run up against black magic and the like.”

“That sounds…” Splendid! A chance to travel to faraway places and do exciting things! “Like a career I would be interested in, Sir.”

“Exactly.” The Headmaster sounded very relieved. Either the Head had no idea what he was going to do with Nightingale or he had been having a lot of trouble finding someone for this position. “Good fit all around. Murville is getting on and the Yard has wanted a more… active officer to take over some of his duties for some time and you’re not the sort of fellow who would find satisfaction in a placid bucolic existence as a County Practitioner.”

Both it seemed 

“I’ll write Murville and invite him to visit so he can meet you.” The Head took up a pen. “It will also give us a chance to prepare a course of study for your last terms. I suspect Murville will want you up to snuff on the sort of spells one uses in duels. Run along now, we don’t want you to be late to dinner.”

As he headed back to his dorm, Nightingale thought tracking and identification spells would probably be of more use to a detective. Also he would ask the retired Army sergeant who taught boxing if he would be willing to teach him more about real fighting. Your average villain was probably not going to use Marquess of Queensberry Rules. 

He headed off to dinner head spinning with ideas for the life that was opening before him. The future looked bright. 

Spring 1944

Varvara had just completed the washing up from Tea when Mrs. Corbin came by ‘to visit’.

If the Resistance in Guernsey had been organized enough to have a command structure, Mrs. Corbin would have been this region's leader. As it was she used her position as local busybody and unofficial nurse/midwife to keep the more active resisters loosely connected with information. It was she who had arranged a cover for Varvara with a farming family as a Land Girl and found a retired Eton tutor to teach her English.

With the result ‘Vivien’ now spoke beautifully intoned Received Pronunciation English and the Islanders who did not know the truth of her background regarded her as posh.

Once settled at the kitchen table and served a cup of what passed for tea these days. Mrs. Corbin informed them. “We’ve got a trio of paratroopers who have dropped in on us. They’re here to see what the Huns have been up to as far as defenses and such. Probably so they can find out what our boys are going to be up against once they actually get around to invading.”

Varvara thought it unlikely that anyone was going to bother invading Guernsey. Aside from the potatoes there was nothing on these islands that was useful to the war effort. The Germans only took the islands for the propaganda value of being able to claim they had conquered a part of Britain. But the gun emplacements here could probably tell these paratroopers a good deal about what the Allies would be facing on the continent.

“One of them is a posh git from some special unit who’s asking all kinds of questions about those SS troops what keeps to themselves.” 

Posh git? Interested in the squad of SS Panzergrenadiers? That could only be one of the British wizards. Varvara’s instructor in magic had been equal parts dismissive and cautionary about the Folly. They were decadent oppressors of the proletariat who in the natural course would pass away from their own degeneracy. Assuming they weren’t lined up against the wall when the British people finally revolted against their oppressors. (From Varvara’s observation of the people of Guernsey, she doubted that would happen any time soon.) At the same time the girls were told in no uncertain terms to avoid engaging with them. Apparently British wizards began to study magic as children. They went through ten years of formal training and many continued their studies throughout their lives. Which even with the less than a year’s worth of training she received before she was tossed into the fighting, Varvara knew would make them far more skilled than she.

“Since I know you’ve been keeping an eye on those odd SS fellows I set up a meeting tomorrow for you to tell them what you can.” Mrs. Corbin finished her tea and bustled off leaving them the latest underground newspaper.

And Varvara with a dilemma. If she tried to avoid meeting the British wizard she would likely raise doubts among the Resistance. Until she could get off this island she needed to stay in their good graces. It would only take one of them to be suspicious enough to turn her into the Germans and then things would be very bad.

But the British wizards were very territorial. They controlled who used magic in Britain. From everything she had heard that was limited to them. After all she had gone through to hide from the Nazis, handing herself over to the Folly was not a viable option.

She had managed to hide her skills from the SS. She would just have to bluff like mad with this posh git as well. 

So the following day she put on her good coat, a heavy green wool donated from the wardrobe of someone's dead grandmother and only slightly too large, tied her scarf in the English fashion and presented herself at a barn halfway across the island. All of nine kilometers.

The posh git was introduced as Captain Thomas Nightingale. “Thank you for coming, Miss Vivien. I’m told that you have been keeping a close eye on the SS troops here on the island. Any information you could provide about them would be most helpful.”

Varvara told where the Panzergrenadiers were headquartered, how many of them she had observed, what she had been able to observe of their command structure and how they appeared to fit into the rest of the occupying forces. Nightingale took notes and asked relevant questions. A decadent member of the bourgeoisie he might be, but he seemed to know his job.

Still she thought she was getting away with it until he asked, “Have you observed any unusual activity in the troop?”

“Unusual?”

“Odd lights for example. Or perhaps unusual exercises where things moved in strange ways.” Nightingale was watching her closely.

Pizdets! It was likely other members of the Resistance had noticed those idiot Germans throwing fireballs at each other in what might be practice exercises but looked more like drunken hijinks. They were hardly discreet about it. She could not pretend not to have noticed given how closely she had been observing them. Trying desperately to hold on to her cover, she said slowly, “Sometimes they do an exercise where they seem to be throwing pieces of something burning at each other. The point appears to be to try and avoid being hit. Some of them can bat them away. Others just dodge.”

“Can you describe the ones who ‘bat’ the fire away?” 

She had been able to learn the names of three of the wizards among the enlisted men. She gave them to him. Along with descriptions of the other wizards. “The Lieutenant doesn’t take part often. They go easy on him when he does. Still he misses about half the time. The older Feldwebel is very good. He usually can bat the fire back at the man who threw it at him.”

Nightingale nodded thoughtfully. “When you observe them at this exercise do you feel anything? A flash of something untoward?”

“Feel anything?” Varvara put confusion into her voice.

Nightingale sighed. “Miss Vivien, my part in this mission is primarily to obtain as much information about these particular SS Panzergrenadiers as possible. Especially to discover if they actually have some means of tracking certain types of _practices_. You appear to be familiar with the type of practices I am talking about. I understand that you feel you have to hide from the Germans. We know they have conscripted people with your talents everywhere they have occupied. I am impressed that you managed to elude detections during your captivity. But you do not need to pretend with me that you don’t know what I’m talking about. Whatever you may have heard, as long as you do not use your talent to harm anyone or disturb the King’s peace, my Society does not persecute women like yourself who have picked up some of the art through family tradition or other means.

“But we do expect you to exercise discretion. No one is going to object if you move the odd heavy object or light a fire. If you start selling Love Potions in the marketplace, well, in normal times questions would be asked. These days we mainly want your cooperation. Do you understand?”

He thought she was some sort of British baba yaga. Better than the truth. As long as it didn’t mean imprisonment she could live with that. So she nodded. “Can you actually make a love potion?”

“Not as far as I know.” Nightingale chuckled. “I’ve met fellows for whom several pints would accomplish the same thing.”

More seriously he asked, “And our German friends?”

“The ones I named and described are definitely... is practitioners the right term?” At Nightingale’s nod she continued. “Most of them aren’t very good. They use way too much force when they throw fire. Only the Feldwebel seems to have much training. I think he’s their teacher. The Lieutenant has even less training than the enlisted men. I overheard something once that suggested he got the command because he married the daughter of some Party leader. The men don’t think much of him.” 

At this point she might as well tell him the rest. “I think they are werewolves. They’re supposed to be able to sniff out…”

Nightingale had been avoiding using terms like magic and spells. Probably because Mrs. Corbin was listening in. “... People like us.” 

“People or just when one is actively using the art?” He asked.

“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “And believe me I wish I did. I made a point of not doing anything _unusual_ once I was captured and they never noticed me. But there was a fellow that was being transported to Guernsey with us, one who was different.”

She had no idea of the English term for feya so they would just have to make do with ‘different’. “They spotted him as soon as they boarded the ship. Even though he had not done anything. I’m not even sure he could. He was only a little bit different.”

“That’s very interesting.” Nightingale considered. “These werewolves, is that just one of the Nazis’ fanciful names or can they actually…?”

“I don’t know that either.” She admitted. “I heard wolves howling when I was captured but we were in the forest where there were real wolves so it may not mean anything. There haven’t been any wolves seen on the island since they arrived.”

Nightingale made some more notes. “And the part about sniffing? Do they have to be close to you and actually smell something?”

“I’m fairly certain that bit is just metaphoric.” 

“You’ve been extremely helpful, Miss Vivien. I don’t suppose you would be willing to show us where you’ve been observing the troops from?” He did not seem to expect her to agree.

With three big clumsy soldiers who probably had no idea how to move quietly through the woods? She shook her head. “I’ve already been captured once by the SS. I intend to avoid the experience a second time.”

“Quite.” Nightingale considered. “We have a survey map. Perhaps you could show us the best locations to observe on there. Also a spot that has good escape routes. I plan to see just how close you have to be for them to spot you using the art.”

“Just as long as I’m on the other side of the island when you do your testing.”

She even drew them a detailed map of the base before she left. 

Nothing happened for several days. Varvara regarded that as a sign that the English wizard had managed not to get caught. 

So she was not overly surprised when Mrs. Corbin stopped on her weekly rounds with the news the paratroopers had learned what they came for and made it off the island to rendezvous with the boat that was to collect them.

Varvara served Mrs. Corbin her latest experiment in cooking. She had discovered that the leftover cooked porridge from breakfast could be baked with something to sweeten it like berries from the forest to make a quite tasty tea biscuit. Mrs. Corbin paid her the compliment of having two.

“The posh git gave me a message for you.” She said, dipping her second biscuit in her tea. “He said to tell you that he is fairly certain the SS can only track someone actively using the art. Whatever that’s supposed to mean. And they only have a range of about 100 yards..

“He also said that if ‘the Society’ ever bothers you, tell them that you’ve helped him and they should talk to him before passing judgment.” 

Varvara had no intention of running afoul of any British wizards, but she made a mental note of the offer anyway. Who knew when it might come in handy.


End file.
